


charming

by alisdas



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Choking, Dom!Bucky, Dom/sub, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Minor Violence, Name-Calling, Reader-Insert, Russian!Bucky, Smut, Spanking, also one assassination attempt, bilingual!bucky, brat!reader, brock rumlow being a little bitch, bucky is BEEFY RUSSIAN and READY TO MURDER ANYONE AT ANY GIVEN TIME, but not really, eh might be some face slapping maybe? cant remember, more like : youre so fucking annoyign but theres so much sexual tension between us, okay as for the smut:, rich!reader, sub!Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:09:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23790589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: In which you're a girl in need of protection, and Bucky's the perfect man for the job.
Relationships: (slight), Brock Rumlow/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 270





	charming

**Author's Note:**

> russian translations at the very end! and also available to read on my tumblr!! https://venusbarnes.tumblr.com/post/613959286690889728/charming <3

You’d had an inkling of a suspicion that something was… not right. 

Calls suddenly ended when you entered a room, talking coming to a finish, secretive cheques left just out of sight on your father’s desk. Last week at dinner, he was called to a seperate table — only one man sitting there, stout and bald but… terrifying. Covered in tattoos and wearing a big, chunky ring that even _you_ could see from your position. The table was surrounded by men, too, hard-faced and still and equally as scary. 

You’d watched, frowning, only a cup of wine to keep you company as your father sat and talked for the next 30 minutes, missing the first course. Things looked tense. And those men looked _dangerous_. Not the type of people a senator looking to be re-elected would associate himself with — no, not at all. 

“What was that about?” You asked when he sat down again, casting one last scrutinizing glance over your shoulder at the mysterious man. He caught your eye, and raised a glass, and the only thing you could do was attempt a weak smile.

“Nothing, princess. Nothing at all.” It was _extremely_ obvious that it was the exact opposite. He plucked the menu up from the table, a silent order to let it go. “Hm, the coq au vin looks good.”

And that was that. 

_Nothing at all_ turns out to be _Vadim Stepanchikov_ — better known in the New York area as the leader of the Russian mafia, at least underneath his watertight cover as a businessman specialising in the sale of foreign cars. Over a lunch of shrimp gemelli and Chardonnay, your father breaks the news to you — tries to make it seem like such a small, trivial thing that it almost makes you laugh. _We’ve got some new benefactors, princess. They’re… they’re in the security business_.

You almost snorted. _Security_. If security was drug-running and arms dealing and torture and bashing in people’s skulls, then yes. Vadim Stepanchikov is the most secure man in the city, and your father is on his payroll—

And that’s when the threats start coming.

“Princess, this is Bucky. Bucky’ll be your new bodyguard.”

_Bucky_ is a 6 foot something _behemoth_ of a man. Thick and muscular and tall and did you mention _thick_? Wearing an all black suit, his feet shoulder width apart and hands clasped behind his back — _impossibly_ still, like a statue. Thick tattoos wind up the space of neck left available to see — and, you find with a glance, trail across his hands. You guess the rest of him is covered like that, too — and if you knew _anything_ about your father’s new _ally_ , you have a good guess as to where he got them.

(Prison. He got them in prison.)

Dark black hair — long, you note, tied into a bun at the nape of his neck. (You almost want to make fun of him for it but _you’re_ the one that’s finding it attractive, for some reason, so really it would just be a personal roast.) Blue eyes, almost _shockingly_ blue, set under thick, harsh eyebrows and decently long eyelashes. A hard, square jaw, and a strong aquiline nose — lips pink and flushed, which is kinda cute, but his overall _extremely dangerous and slightly murderous_ demeanour cancels it out.

“Bodyguard?” You ask, trying to hide the fact that you’re really quite intimidated by him with an unimpressed frown. “I don’t _need_ a bodyguard.”

“He’s Vadim’s best, princess,” your father says, like that’s supposed to sway you at all. You guess he’s kinda nervous considering the last bodyguard you had quit because you were, _quote_ , ‘extremely hard to deal with, and not worth the nervous break’, _unquote_. You didn’t like him either, to be fair. “He’ll keep you safe with… everything going on.”

‘Everything going on’ — code for _I’ve been receiving death threats from other gangs and anonymous senders because I’m a corrupt politician who’s sided with the Russian mafia._ There’s something poetic about being given a bodyguard from the very people who are technically causing the death threats in the first place.

Your father’s new ‘friend’, Vadim, nods vigorously over his glass of vodka, holding a hand out in Bucky’s direction. “Best man. Is strong.”

You walk deeper into your father’s office, leisurely tapping your nails against the screen of your phone as you take in this _Bucky_. 

Seems they were in the middle of something, with the amount of testosterone in the place — four guards posted outside, two at each of the four windows inside, _plus_ two standing behind Vadim and one behind your father. As well as that, some of Vadim’s _advisors_ have taken spots on the brown Chesterfield. Almost every man — except for the bodyguards — holds a glass of alcohol in his hand, including your father, but you aren’t disillusioned. This is most definitely business. 

Bucky doesn’t move. His eyes stay fixed to a point above your head, even as you move closer, even as you trail your eyes up and down him real, _real_ slow. You come to a stop just in front of him.

(Did you already mention how _big_ he is?)

“Bucky, eh?” You repeat quietly, tilting your head. He doesn’t reply. Stares ahead, still completely unmoving. Like a robot. A fucking _robot_. Jesus Christ, is that it? That’s his _schtick_? Boring. Your last bodyguard had trouble looking you in the eye without trembling. You don’t think that’s gonna be a problem for Beefy Bucky. He’d probably look right through you. That’s what robots _do_ , right?

(Like you said: boring, but you know better than to refuse a bodyguard from Vadim Stepanchikov. Still — you can have a _little_ fun.)

Whip-fast, you reach up and seize Bucky’s jaw in one perfectly manicured hand — and _there_ we go. His eyes flicker down to you, narrowed in what might be confusion, what _might_ be annoyance, or what _might_ be a sudden urge to murder you. Either way, it’s halfway between turning you on and making you smug, especially as he begrudgingly lets you tilt his head this way and that, carrying out some made-up checklist that you pretend has been fulfilled when you step away.

“Okay,” you say finally, turning on your heel. Your father gives a silent sigh of relief as you begin to leave. “I’m going to bed.”

In truth, you’ve almost forgotten about Bucky by the time the next morning rolls around — though, to be fair, you had been halfway to being drunk. After bathing and carrying out your ‘unreasonable’ 10-step skincare routine, you get dressed in what you’ve proudly named your _errand clothes_ ; white dress shirt tucked into a denim skirt, block heels, and a simple handbag. 

When you stride out of the double doors of your room, you’re fully expecting your usual guy to be there — imagine your surprise when, instead of a weedy, nervous man, you’re faced with the aloof _mountain_ posted outside. Even at — you check your watch — 11 AM, he looks completely and utterly _perfect_. No hairs out of place, suit pressed and midnight black, back straight.

You freeze for a moment when you see him, fingers coming to a still over your phone screen. “…Oh.”

He raises a brow, as if to say _what?_ and you quickly move on again to avoid explaining the fact that you _kinda sorta maybe_ forgot you were assigned a new guard because you were gone off tequila.

“C’mon—” Bruce? Brody? No, it was… It was… Bucky, that was it. You remember, mostly because it was maybe the last name you expected him to have. “—Bucky. I’ve got things to do.”

After all, you’re a busy girl — being the daughter of one of the most important senators in New York means that more often than not, you’ve got all eyes on you. 

(Which is why this whole deal with the Russians is… mindblowingly stupid, but whatever — it wasn’t your decision to make.)

All eyes on you means you’ve got a lot of work on your hands to upkeep your image. Regular appointments to spas, hairdressers, boutiques. Brunches with socialite friends with lengthy connections, gala dinners and charity functions — and, when the cameras turned to someone else for the night, clubs and bars where you could get shitfaced enough to forget your own name. Your beloved night-time routine may be shunned by your father, but, well, between the wildchild and the crooked senator, who was the lesser of two evils?

“Wait.” It’s said short and snappy, no room for argument — and usually you’d do the exact opposite just to see what happens, but something about him makes you listen. You stop just short of one of your father’s many cars lined up in the underground garage — it’s the Jaguar XJ, one of the more inconspicuous models available. And Bucky is stopping you from getting inside. 

Bucky, you realise quite quickly as you watch him work, takes his job _extremely_ seriously. Maybe a tad _too_ serious. Exhibit one: checking the inside of the car for bugs and — after getting down and crawling _underneath it_ — a fucking _bomb_. What the _fuck._

“Look,” you say, taking a peek at the time on your wrist, “I doubt somebody’s gonna try and assassinate me on my way to brunch, so could we wrap this up?”

“It is my job.” And the only thing you really register is that his voice is kinda really sexy. Like, deep and rumbling in his chest and yet, the type of smooth that makes you freeze momentarily. His accent is thick — not so thick that you can’t understand him, but it rolls and folds over his words pleasantly. Choppy, but charming. _Extremely_ attractive. And of course, you can acknowledge that while also acknowledging the fact that he’s annoying as fuck.

Bucky crawls back out from underneath the car, squinting up at you. It’s only a _little_ bit funny to see this _fearsome colossus_ of a man kneeling in front of you, eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Takes five minutes, _princess_. Prefer this over being blasted into pieces.”

And then he stands up and rounds the car the the driver’s seat, leaving you standing open-mouthed and blinking because _what the fuck._ Bucky has a _personality_. And yes, it might be completely dependent on your own ability to annoy him but you’re seriously taken aback that the first thing he’s said to you is a _scolding_.

“Are you getting in?” He asks; looks up at you from the driver’s seat, eyes dark and expectant and you have half a mind to turn around and change your mind just to make him angry. 

“Don’t rush me,” you reply instead — and then you hurry up and get yourself sitting in the backseat anyway. While your new protection is checking out the GPS, you check _him_ out. Well, you _survey_ him, is more appropriate, because while you got quite a good luck at him in your father’s office being in such close quarters with him now is more beneficial.

He quite literally _fills_ the front seat. The top of his head almost brushes against the leather headliner — and if you lean forward a bit and inhale real quiet, you can smell his cologne. Something masculine, woodsy… You almost want to roll your eyes because it’s so _generic_ but at the same time it’s… it’s different and you don’t know _how_. Spicy but sweet and impossibly warm, the kind of scent that makes you want to bury your face in a pile of blankets and sleep for three years straight. 

…Or something.

(Whatever. You’re still half-hungover from the night before.)

At this distance you can just barely make out the tattoos on his hands, snaking up towards the cuffs of his black dress shirt and probably continuing upwards. Tear drops — blood drops? A scroll of Cyrillic writing from his middle finger all the way past his shirt. A series of stars… the edge of a rose, maybe, if you tilt your head and close one eye…?

His hand suddenly whips away from your line of sight, and when your eyes shoot up towards him you catch a glimpse of blue eyes in the rear view mirror — he’s quick to focus his gaze back on the road, though, so with only a slight narrowing of your eyes you lean back in your seat.

“So, Bucky, eh?” 

He remains silent, one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting by his thigh.

“Doesn’t sound like a very Russian name,” you press, raising an eyebrow — and when he _continues_ to say _nothing_ , you huff. “You know, I can just keep asking questions to a blank wall or you could just humour me and make me shut up.”

Still nothing. And so, your last resort, said with a cheeky smile and a tilt of your head: “Unless you’ve got another method of shutting me up. Which I wouldn’t be completely averse to.”

You guess the jolty pause of the car that comes after is due in part to the red light that you hadn’t noticed as _well_ as your little comment — considering Bucky’s knuckles are almost stark white on the steering wheel, your joke probably rubbed him the wrong way.

“I’m kidding,” you grumble, checking your reflection in the reflection of your phone. “Do you even know how to drive? I could’ve — broken my neck or something!”

“Would have shut you up, yes?”

Throughout the entirety of brunch Bucky remains in the back of your mind. And a few feet away, sitting with his arms folded and brow furrowed, very _obviously_ on the lookout. _He doesn’t at all know how to blend in_ , you find yourself scoffing. If you see another middle-aged trophy wife casting a _scared-but-slightly-horny_ look at him you might scream. They could do way better.

“ _Ooo…_ ” Natasha doesn’t even bother hiding the slow and sure way her eyes trail up the length of Bucky’s body, and not for the first time today you’re eternally glad that he’s sitting three tables away. When you sat down an hour ago, it had been Dot that had voiced her appreciation for… Bucky’s _form_. Lizzie had admitted that she was already terrified of him. And now, having arrived late, Natasha Romanoff is making her respect for Bucky’s physical attributes known.

(God, why are you skirting around saying it? They think he’s hot. There.)

“How long do you have him, again?”  
You shrug. “Until he decides to quit?”

Natasha hums, reaching over to steal your mimosa. “So, two or three weeks?”

And yeah, it probably would be that short — but something about Natasha being so brazen about checking _your_ bodyguard out, something about her insinuating that you were _hard to deal with_ (which you are, but that’s not the point) makes you competitive. You snatch her mango bellini from under her nose, cocking your jaw in mock-thoughtfulness. “I don’t know. Might keep this one.”

(Not really like you have a choice, anyway. You couldn’t fire a bodyguard given to you by Vadim Stepanchikov — the disrespect in itself would get you killed — and you have a feeling that Bucky _might_ be stubborn enough to stay.)

A week of brunches and shopping and social events later, and Bucky is actually looking like he might be able to handle you. And you hate it. Something about his unimpressed face and patronising tone of voice made you more motivated than ever to get some sort of reaction out of him — first it was asking ( _ordering_ ) him to rub SPF on your back while you were sunbathing by the pool, second it was asking his opinion on a lingerie set you were thinking of buying. You asked him to zip you up too, once, and all it got you was 20 seconds of close contact before he just moved away. The man was completely impermeable, and it irritated you.

_However_. Your need to annoy him is completely unrelated to _this_. (Or at least you’re convincing yourself that.)

“Mandarin Oriental,” you tell Bucky, slipping into the backseat of the car. “Quickly.”

He stops short, tilting his head.

“What?”

“…Is not on your schedule.”

“I _know_ it’s not. Now hurry up.” And because you’re feeling nice: “Please.”

“I am not your driver, you know.” But still, he pulls the car out of park and out of the garage, one hand on the wheel and the other inputting the address into the GPS. “What is in the Mandarin Oriental?”

“Nothing really.” Only your ex-boyfriend turned fuck buddy, Brock. He’s one of those rich boys who think the world owes them something because his father owns a chain of banks, and you’d dated him for a year or so just because he was there, really. And now you kinda have to entertain him because his dad is donating to your father’s re-election campaign — and also because he _really_ knows how to use the body he was given. “So, are you ever gonna tell me why your name is Bucky?”

“No. Is not important.”

You roll your eyes. “Fair enough.”

You soon reach your destination. The Mandarin Oriental seems to reach the sky, its spire shooting right through the clouds and each window glittering in the low evening light. It _screams_ Brock Rumlow — ostentatious and pretentious and _just_ bordering on overkill. The man loves spending money. 

You straighten out your dress as you step out, waiting for Bucky to hand the keys to the parking valet. In truth he doesn’t even need to come inside, but he’s already stepped out of the car, so he may as well. He stays silent as you enter the elevator, standing side by side. The numbers above your head begin to rise — slow, first, but soon you’re flying past the 68th, 69th, 70th floor. All the while you’re wondering why exactly one of the top rated hotels in New York can’t splurge on some better elevator music.

Brock’s door is one of four on the floor. The hallway’s carpet is a sort of ruby, like walking up to his door is some kinda red carpet event. You hate it because that’s probably exactly what he was thinking when he saw it, too. You and Brock had always been similar in that way, riding the same train of thought — the only difference is that he probably loved it.

A sigh leaves your lips as you give the door a knock, and as you catch Bucky glancing at you from the corner of your eye, you wonder once more if you’ll actually have to end up explaining this to Bucky when it’s said and done, or if he’ll just pretend like it never happened. Half of you wants him to ignore it. The other half secretly wants him to be a little bit bothered.

The door opens with a click, and there he is: Brock Rumlow, asshole supreme. He’s wearing slacks and a white shirt, his hair cropped short and beard dark and thick. At least, thicker than Bucky’s, whose facial hair is limited to some stubble. 

(Why do you insist on comparing everyone to Bucky? Why?)

Bucky is glaring at Brock. Brock is glaring at Bucky. It’s like you can feel the masculinity in the air, and not in a good way. You pray to God that Brock won’t try and show Bucky up because you just might let Bucky have a go at him if he does — God knows he deserves it. “Who’s this, sweetie?”

You restrain yourself from wrinkling your nose.

“This is Bucky,” you say, like it answers his question. “Now, are we gonna sit out here talking all day?”

“Course not, baby.”

“Yeah, okay. Don’t make me regret this.” You turn to Bucky as Brock wanders back into his suite. “Wait here. I’ll be out in 30.”

Bucky only folds his arms and narrows his eyes, so you take that as an _okay_ and shut the door behind you. Brock looks up from where he’s pouring himself a drink, smiling like the cat who got the cream.

“Been a long time, sweetie.”

You’d tell him that you don’t like being called pet names, but, well, that isn’t true for everyone, is it?

“This is what you came here for?”

When you step outside exactly 32 minutes later, you’re immediately bombarded by the amount of animosity in Bucky’s voice. Your hair is tied up loosely, now, a suspicious lack of lipstick on your lips and your skirt rumpled. You’re still straightening yourself up when he speaks, and you come to a halt — finding yourself buying into his provocation and turning on your heel with a hand on your waist. “Excuse me?”

“You came here to have _sex_?” His face is screwed up in incredulity, head tilted to the side in the most condescending manner possible. “Your father just received another death threat yesterday, specifically targeting _you,_ and you think that messing around like this is a good idea?”

“If you have a problem with what I do, you can take it to my father,” you reply sourly, turning around again. “Now let’s go. I’m hungry—”

You yelp when his fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you back to face him.

“No, we’re going nowhere, because we need to get this straight,” he continues, sharp. “I am not your lookout. I am your _bodyguard_. I am not here to listen to you fuck this — this _weasel_.“ You almost snort— "I am here to make sure you don’t end up with a bullet in your gut, do you understand?”

You’ll never admit it, but in that moment you were genuinely scared. Something about seeing Bucky so angry instead of his usual cool composure unsettled you — you hadn’t thought anything of going to see Brock. The threats had never come to fruition before and you doubted they ever would. You just wanted a quick tumble in the sheets, and if it annoyed Bucky at the same time it was just killing two birds with one stone. The only problem is that Bucky is taking it a lot worse than you’d been planning, and that means that you’ve done something wrong.

And _this_ means, of course, that you go on the defensive because you’re not about to admit you made a bad choice, at least not after defending yourself so strongly. That’s _embarrassing_. “It’s not that deep, Bucky. Maybe get some and you won’t be so bitter about _me_ getting some, huh?”

A short, hurried line of Russian leaves his lips — and from the frustrated smile on his face, you guess it was a curse. “That is what you think this is? _Jealousy_? You are naive.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really. You think the only reason someone can be angry at you is because they want to fuck you—”

“And do you?”

You’ve caught him off-guard. Or, well, not even off-guard, but an _outraged_ kind of disbelieving, like he’s wondering how you can be quite so shameless when he’s chewing you out. The silence hardens between you, before snapping at the huffed laugh he lets out. He runs a hand through his hair tiredly, shaking his head before pointing at you. “You are unbelievable, ______.”

“Thanks. I’ve been told that it’s part of me charm.”

And you both start towards the elevator.

(In the back of your mind you’re reminded that, well, _he never said no_.) 

“What do your tattoos mean?”

You’re floating on an ice-cream shaped pool-float in the middle of the pool when you ask it, sunglasses fixed over your eyes and hand wrapped around a tall glass of lemon water. It’s a special occasion for Bucky — he’s shed his suit jacket and unbuttoned his dress shirt by three buttons. Amazing. 

He sits on a lounge chair in the shade, and for once he actually looks _calm_. He’s been guarding you for two months now, and this is the first time he looks like he doesn’t particularly want to murder anyone. You guess that summer does that to everyone, even 6-foot-something bulky Russian guys.

“I’m not sure you want to know.”

“No, I’m — I’m sure I do.”

“No.”

“Yes, please.”

“ _No_.”

You groan, throwing your head back. “Fine, whatever.”… “Where did you get them?”

“You’re very annoying, do you know that?”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“Really, it is not.” 

“…Can you say something in Russian?”

“Хватит говорить.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” you muse, pushing yourself towards the edge where he’s sitting. “What did you say? Profess your undying love for me? Tell me you want to strip me naked and have your way with me?”

He snorts, and you find yourself snickering along. “Something like that.”

Madame Brodeur’s. The high-end boutique is notorious for being — well, the exact opposite of whatever _Goth hitman_ aesthetic Bucky’s got going on — colour palette strictly pastel, powder pink walls and white washed wood, the scent of french vanilla and strawberries. In the ten minutes that you’ve been waiting in your fitting room, Bucky has stood comically and seriously still at the door, hands clasped in front of him. 

Not for the first time since you’ve been with him — and it’s been almost five, six months, by now — you wonder just what he’s carrying on him. He’s formidable as is, of course, but you’d be stupid to think he wasn’t armed. How many guns? Knives, maybe? The thought shouldn’t intrigue you as much as it does.

“You know you can loosen up,” you call over to him, stripping behind a folding screen. “Nobody’s gonna come hurtling in trying to kill me. In fact, I don’t think _anyone_ is gonna try it for a _long_ time, so you can stop looking like you’ve got the world’s biggest stick up your ass.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then, almost begrudgingly, as if he hadn’t even wanted to _reply_ , “I have a job to do. And I will do it.”

Well, you can’t say you expected any other answer. Seems you had him pegged from the moment you saw him — work-oriented, can barely take a joke, showcases a _wide_ range of four whole emotions (anger, annoyance, indifference, and amusement-tinged condescension). Except for that one time at the pool, but that’s an outlier.

Is this an upgrade or downgrade?

_An upgrade,_ you admit reluctantly as you sling the silken robe provided over your arm. But only because you can tease him to hell and back without the threat of him pissing himself. No, he’ll just stare at you with his jaw clenched and his eyes hard and sometimes he might even retaliate with a smart comment of his own. And _that_ , you think, is an improvement. 

Still, you’re rolling your eyes as you step out and make a beeline for the little cart of refreshments — eyes drifting over to your bodyguard instinctively. You’re amused to find him looking even _more_ stiff than usual at the sight of you, if that’s possible, with his chest puffed out and his jaw hard and square.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” because you can’t help but tease him. You pour yourself half a glass of the complimentary champagne — smart enough to not even _try_ and offer him one on the job. “Never seen a woman so scantily clad?”

“Нет _._ It is only that my women usually skip the undergarments.”

Your chest contracts painfully as your Rosé shoots down the wrong passage — two coughs and a splutter later, and you’re clutching the glass so tightly that you think it might crack. 

O… _kay_. You didn’t think he had it in him. You’re oddly proud. And now you look like an idiot who’s bitten off more than she can chew, mouth opening and closing for something to say, and Bucky is smirking like a cocky sonuvabitch, and _god dammit you can’t believe you let him one-up you—_

“Sweet girl, such a long time since you have visited me. I have got so many pieces for you to try, and — oh? Who is this?”

Madame Brodeur — the small plump French lady after whom the boutique is named — bustles in, a whirlwind of fabric reels and material swatches and her infamous sketchbook. At the sight of Bucky, though, she freezes, and you don’t blame her; in her pale rainbow wonderland he’s like a shadowy corner, brooding and broad and towering above her. 

“This is…?” She shoots you a sudden knowing look— “New bodyguard?”

“New bodyguard,” you confirm shortly, ignoring the still-amused look Bucky’s sporting. “Y’know what? I’ve changed my mind. Bucky, outside.”

He looks for a moment like he might argue, but then he simply turns and walks out, shutting the door behind him. Looks like even _Bucky_ knows that this boutique is literally the least dangerous place on earth.

“He wasn’t supposed to be inside _anyway_ ,” says Madame Brodeur, her face accusatory but fond. 

You shrug. “He doesn’t know that.”

The fitting takes approximately one hour. Madame Brodeur basically has your measurements already, but she takes her time with tailoring some new pieces for you, adjusting them from the mannequin’s sizes to your own. The remaining time is, well—

“And so this _Brock_. Is he nice?”

Gossip. Sometimes you think you come here for the gossip and just happen to leave with the clothes.

“God, no,” you reply, rubbing your temple tiredly at the thought. “He’s atrocious. Really crude, and he thinks the world owes him something because his father owns a few banks, but — _ugh_. I dated him a while back and now he thinks we’re buddies because his father is donating to my father’s re-election campaign.”

The older woman whistles lowly, lowering her cup of tea from her face. “Dangerous territory. You need to let him know that you are not getting back together.”

You try to hide a wince. Yikes. It’s a bit too late for that — because as much as you hated every inch of Brock’s guts, he is very clearly still into you, and, well, a girl has needs. No matter how many times you scolded yourself every time, you always ended up dropping by when you had an itch to scratch. While you’d rather just find the nearest club — and, in turn, warm body — sometimes it’s safer to stick to what you know. And you know Brock, unfortunately.

“…I’ll get back to you on that one,” you say, sighing. You flash your watch towards you, frowning, and begin to gather the bags you’d amassed. “Ugh, I have to go. Lunch plans.”

“Remember to send me a photo for my album!”

“Of course!” You call back. You see her stand to begin tidying away the few cups you’d both used before the door closes. Bucky — standing _literally_ just outside the door and probably making the few customers pottering about extremely uncomfortable — rolls his head towards you, his face an image of boredom.

“Finished?”

You hum, dropping your bags into his hands. “Yeah.”

And you begin walking away. You soon realise, though, that your faithful bodyguard isn’t following — the lack of footsteps behind you makes you peer over your shoulder, eyes expectant. “What are you waiting for?”

“I am not your butler.”

Okay, maybe in this case you preferred your _old_ bodyguard, who would’ve just taken your bags and shut up. It’s not like they’re heavy! Just a few tea dresses, an evening gown, some blouses, a new pantsuit…

“You’re not my butler, you’re not my driver, and you’re not my lookout,” you mock, continuing past him. “Anything else?”

He mutters something in Russian behind you — and honestly, you’re too tired to follow up on what it meant. The sun is strong when you step outside, and you huff. You aren’t wearing the right foundation for this weather. If you don’t get into the car soon, your face is gonna be a Slip ‘N Slide.

“There is no need for this many clothes,” said shortly, as if he doesn’t quite _understand_ your ostentatiousness. 

You shrug. “I wanted them, so I got them.”

You both come to a stop at the traffic lights, waiting for the lights to turn red. Bucky makes a _huh_ sound in the back of his throat, and you turn to him with a raised brow. “What?”

“Nothing. It is just very obvious where your father got your nickname from.”

The light turns red, and you begin to walk towards where the car is parked. “What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

The car gets nearer and nearer.

“Nothing, _princess_.”

Less than a block away—

“Oh, wow. Mature, _Bucky_. What kinda name is Bucky anyway? You still haven’t told me. It’s not Russian, that’s for sure—”

_Thwick._ **_Whoomp!_ **

The light of the explosion reaches you before the heat — blinding white, burning red behind your eyelids. Then comes the heat, and even though you were a fair distance away from the car you feel it spread from head to toe — you don’t even have time to gasp. Faster than you can register, something hard catches you around the waist and _tugs_ , making you fall to the ground and narrowly miss a flying piece of scrap metal.

There’s a dull pain along the back of your head from where you hit the concrete — stinging along your bare legs, an ache all along your spine. Blinking the distortion from your eyes, you realise that the thing that had pulled you out of the way had been _Bucky_ — and even now, with you disoriented and laying on the ground, he’s risen to a kneel, his phone to his ear and rapid Russian spilling from his lips.

“Come,” he barks suddenly, pulling you from the ground so quickly that you’re sure that he’s actually just carrying you, not just supporting your weight. “We need to leave.” 

“T — the car?” _Why are you asking about the car?_ You think, distantly, that you should be more worried about the fact that there was a bomb underneath your car, but your brain just can’t _focus_. You only start to tune in to the fact that Bucky’s scooped you up and is marching away when you peek over his shoulder, catching glimpses of your discarded bags. “My _clothes_.”

“Your life is more important than the clothes,” he snaps. You stay quiet after that. You resign yourself to laying your head on his shoulder and letting him lead you wherever it is he’s taking you.

_Wherever it is_ ends up being one those hipster bookshop cafés. Bucky’s nose wrinkles up momentarily at the sight, but he must realise that he doesn’t exactly have the privilege of being picky in your situation. He settles you down back onto your feet and ushers you in with a hand on the small of your back, glancing cautiously either way. You see his hand hover over his waistline — _definitely packing heat_ , your mind supplies unhelpfully.

“Inside,” he orders shortly, as if you’re not already walking _in_. Still, you don’t say anything, because, well—

Somebody tried to _kill you._ Somebody put a bomb underneath your car like it was fucking 1960s Northern Ireland. Somebody wanted you _dead_ — this wasn’t anonymous letters found in the letterbox threatening your father. This was a sharp piece of metal that narrowly missed your jugular, a bruised back, scraped legs, a growing headache, a car blown to smithereens that was supposed to have you _in it_. You slump in your chair.

“Hey, hey, no sleeping.” Fingers snapping in front of your face, and you jolt to attention. You hadn’t even realised that you were drifting off. You’re just so _tired_. And you want to go home. And you could use a hug or two. “You could have, uh…” He searches for the word— “…concussion.”

“‘M tired, Bucky.”

Bucky ignores you. He sees your sagging posture and slips from his seat opposite you to sit beside you, holding you up. You don’t need to be fully aware of your surroundings to know he’s casting wary looks around the café, though in truth the only thing he has to worry about from here is gentrification and overpriced coffee. 

“Whoever put that bomb in your car did it after we arrived,” Bucky explains lowly, bowing his head to your ear. “That means they could still be near. We must be careful.”

“How will we get home?”

He makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, suddenly reaching down and taking your left knee between his hands. “Bruised and scraped. You will be fine.”

“Somebody put a bomb underneath my car,” you hiss — or, try to. You’re still a bit woozy. “I will not be _fine_.”

“Of course you will. You have me, yes?”

It’s so uncharacteristically positive and shamelessly self-congratulating that for a second you only stare at him. Then you realise that _technically_ he kinda deserves it for, you know, making sure you didn’t get blown up to tiny little pieces. And for pulling you out of the way of the _very sharp_ flying metal piece that had been hurtling towards your throat. So instead of publicly reprimanding him, you decide to fold your arms and lean your head on his shoulder and pout to yourself. And you do so for the entire 37 minutes it takes for your new — and thankfully unexploded — car to arrive.

Turns out, you do in fact have a mild concussion. The doctor recommended a painkiller and bed rest and water, and that was that. A brief meeting with the police, an even briefer meeting with the doctor, and you’re left exponentially more aware than earlier, mourning the loss of your car _and_ your custom pieces. You were sure Madame Brodeur would understand — didn’t make telling her any easier, though. She’s got the face of a cherub.

Bucky’s taken a seat by your bedside, flicking through a magazine you had thrown around somewhere. You can’t express how strange it feels to see Bucky sitting so calmly, reading the latest edition of Vogue like it was a regular thing for him to do.

“Your father is on his way,” he speaks up, keeping his eyes focused on the magazine. “Should land in an hour or two.”

“…Okay.” 

From the corner of your eye, you see him look up. “Are you… okay?” It sounds like it pains him to ask — like the question is so alien in his mouth that he doesn’t quite know how to react to it.

…And you don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to say because you’ve been pushing these death threats to the back of your mind, waiting for your father to be re-elected because that’s when they’d _stop_. Every time elections came around there’d be someone in your letterbox threatening your and your father’s lives — been that way since you were old enough to eavesdrop. But this was the first time that somebody hadn’t been bluffing — then again, this was also the first time that your father had openly done business with the mafia. 

It’s just… This was the first time that… that…

“Hey, hey,” he sounds alarmed. There’s a crinkling sound as he sets down the magazine, and suddenly he’s leaning forward — warm fingers on your jaw turning your face towards him. “Don’t cry. You’re fine.”

“And what if I wasn’t?” Your bottom lip trembles, and fuck — this is embarrassing. This brings new meaning to wanting the floor to open and swallow you whole. You’re sniffling like a baby and Bucky was never meant to see you like this and—

“Come here, _принцесса_.” It’s murmured so softly that you almost don’t hear it — and it’s followed by a shuffle and the squeaking of his chair against the floor and suddenly Bucky has his arms wrapped around you. 

Your first thought is _what the fuck_. 

Your second is… _this is nice_. Bucky’s warm and big and strong and being pressed against him makes you feel safer than you’ve felt all day. The way his chest rises and the gentle thudding of his heart by your ear grounds you, brings you back to the here and now, pulls you out of the thoughts that have been plaguing you ever since you returned home — the hand on the back of your head has your eyes fluttering shut. Even the smell of his cologne screams _protected_. 

(And in hindsight, it’s this moment that should’ve told you that you were starting to grow… _fond_.)

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m fine.”

“It is okay to be scared,” he replies, easing his arms off of you once more. The sudden lack of warmth makes you shiver, and you pull your blankets up and close to you. “This is… not a normal situation. But it will be handled swiftly; Stepanchikov will assure that.”

“Yeah,” you agree awkwardly. “Um, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

And that’s that.

“Hey, princess.”

“Hey, daddy.” You blink the sleep from your eyes, sitting up from your bed with a yawn. A quick glance outside shows that it’s _barely_ evening; sky orange and pink, and you remember that you’d fallen asleep earlier after the doctor’s visit. Bucky had… comforted you, and then you’d lain down, and–

“Where’s Bucky?” You mutter, accepting the hug that your father wraps around you. You can’t help but notice how _tired_ he looks – bags under his eyes and a pallid type of tint to his skin. Probably something to do with the fact that there was an attempt on your life.

“Outside. I owe him a great debt, you know. He saved your life.”

“I know,” you say. “I… I thanked him already.”

Your father hums, but tenseness settles over the two of you like a blanket. He’s looking down at his hands, rolling the ring on his wedding finger around and around and around, and you know what he’s going to say. It’s what he always says after the slightest little danger has happened.

“You should have stayed with her.”

_Her_. Your mother. Your mother who had had an affair and left your father and moved to _Hawaii_ or something with her new beau who was twenty-something years younger. She hadn’t even fought for you when you said you’d stay with your father, and she never looked back.

“Daddy, don’t,” you plead. “I stayed with you because I love you, and nothing will change that.”

“I keep putting your life in danger.”

“ _You’re_ not putting my life in danger. Those _idiots_ are putting my life in danger.” He only shakes his head, and you continue: “Look at me, I’m fine! Bucky… Bucky knew what to do and he helped me and he _saved_ me, daddy, and I’m _fine.”_

( _But you almost weren’t,_ a teasing voice in your head whispers. _Almost, almost_.)

“Look,” you say softly. “Get some sleep, okay? We both need it. Everything always seems better in the morning, doesn’t it?”

At that, he cracks a smile. “It always does,” he repeats, clasping his hand over yours. “I’m so glad you’re okay, princess.”

( _But you almost weren’t._ )

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Call Bucky if anything, okay?”

“Of course,” you say, smiling. “Night, daddy.”

“Night, princess.”

You’re okay. But you almost weren’t.

Nobody ever said that you dealt with anxiety in a smart way. No, in fact, they’d say the exact opposite. Your remedies for anxiety are usually a bottle of tequila and a club so jam-packed with people that you can’t hear yourself think. So, yeah. Not smart. The complete opposite, especially with the fact that you had an attempt on your life just two weeks ago, but that didn’t stop you from locking yourself in your room for the entire day and draining a bottle of Patrón Añejo.

Even _more_ stupid, when—

“Are you _drunk_?” Bucky snarls, leaning down to sniff at you. “ _Иисус Христос_.”

A gala. A charity gala for something or other. You stopped caring about causes when you realised they could easily be solved if all these people weren’t so greedy and donated because they actually _wanted_ to help, not just because it gave them a headline on the best tabloids. 

You barely remember getting dressed or doing your hair or makeup, barely remember meeting up with Bucky at the car, barely remember stepping out and onto the red carpet. You’d stayed silent and unassuming the entire ride over, so it wasn’t until you were being escorted into the venue that Bucky caught a whiff of it.

“Why d’you care?” You slur, clinging to his arm. “‘M not in danger. Just tipsy.”

“You’re far past tipsy,” said as more of a hiss as he covertly turns you towards the employees exit. “C’mon. We’re leaving.”

“No!” You whine. “I wanna stay. I wanna _stay_ , Bucky—”

He doesn’t listen — not that you expected him to, anyway. He just keeps walking, ignoring the calls of _sir, you can’t be back here!_ that come from every direction, striding so quickly that within minutes you’re around the empty back of the venue. It’s _cold_. You tell Bucky this. He ignores it.

“Do you not care about anything?” He demands instead, turning to face you. “This isn’t about your safety, this is about your reputation. Your reputation that you care so much about.”

“Reputation doesn’t matter when you’re _dead_.”

Bucky stills, staring at you. “You aren’t _dead_ , _____, and you aren’t _dying–”_

_“But I almost was!”_ And you suddenly sound so hysteric, so insane, and you _hate it_. You’re supposed to be the perfect one. Rich father, rich lifestyle, hot bodyguard. You aren’t supposed to have problems or anxieties or a fear of being fucking _blown up_. 

Two warm hands clutch your biceps, trying to ground you, trying to steady you, and it _works,_ if only for a moment. 

“Listen to me,” he begins, bowing close to your face. “I understand that this is hard, but drinking yourself halfway to death isn’t the answer!”

“Why do you have to lecture me about _everything_?”

_“Because I care about you!”_

In the aftermath of his yell, the alley seems too silent. Your mind is grappling with his words but it’s like trying to grasp smoke with your bare hands — you know his confession is serious, you know it should make you gasp and freeze and say something back, but the connection between your brain and your motor nerves seems to have severed.

“You will regret this tomorrow if you go back in there,” he continues, suddenly hasty in the uncertainty of it all. “So I will take you home.”

Your eyes find the ground. For a moment you imagine that all the grime and dirt beneath your shoes is your fighting spirit, just floating out of every pore and settling underneath you. Of course, that was drunk you all over — fiery and raging, and then… weary and lethargic. “…okay.”

And so, that night, Bucky drives you home. You fall asleep in the car, and your bodyguard simply plucks you up and carries you up to bed. He removes the too-high shoes strapped to your feet; wipes your makeup off to the best of his abilities.

If you were awake you would have felt the ghost of a kiss on your forehead — if you were awake, you would have heard him whisper goodnight, but you weren’t. And as fate would have it, you don’t remember anything the next morning, either.

You’re swaying on your feet the next morning, a pair of oversized sunglasses perched haphazardly on the bridge of your nose and wearing the most disorganized outfit available in your closet: a cropped hoodie, a too-big pair of sweatpants, and two mismatched socks. Your hair is a nest on top of your head. You don’t even remember coming home — you’d woken up, still in your evening gown, though your shoes were removed and your makeup was (quite badly) scrubbed off. Did you do that? You can’t remember. But you _do_ remember getting drunk right before an important event.

You groan, pressing your forehead to the cold marble of the kitchen’s island. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You did something embarrassing. You most definitely did. You were the most irritable person on earth while drunk. Fuck, you probably offended a journalist and now you’ll have your face plastered all over every social media platform imaginable, and your father’s PR team will have your head on a spike, and—

“You’re up early,” says Bucky casually, strolling into the kitchen. He arrives every morning at 7:45 exactly, and usually you’re asleep until 8:30, but the urge to empty the contents of your stomach had you bowing over your toilet bowl at 7. “Rough night?”

You don’t even have the power to glare at him. Much. And the whole _puffy hangover face and gigantic sunglasses_ look doesn’t do much for your intimidation. Still, he must sense your aggravation — chuckles to himself as he rounds the kitchen island and begins rummaging through cupboards.

“What happened last night?” You really don’t want to know. “And why are you ransacking our pantry?”

“You showed up to the gala drunk.” A few onions, half a head of cabbage, a jar of pickles, a couple of sausages, and — God, after the first few moments you stop keeping track of what he’s putting down. “I took you home before you could do something you would regret.”

Oh, well. That’s not so bad. Relief floods you, and you feel one hundred times lighter knowing you didn’t puke all over the shoes of some investor.

“And the sausages?” You say, deadpan. 

“Solyanka.” You watch with veiled interest as he slings a large knife from the knife block, immediately going to work on the small mountain of vegetables he’d amassed. If you were being honest, you didn’t even know that you had that much food in your pantry. You and your father didn’t cook — you had a personal chef. Today was her day off, and you usually lived off of the most simple meals you could cook up yourself. “Best hangover cure.”

“You’re cooking for me?” Immediately you curse yourself for saying it, because you’re suddenly all too aware that you sound _soft_. Soft, and surprised, and just a tiny bit affectionate, and you’re making this _weird_. 

But thankfully, Bucky smooths over it with only a short: “Да.” 

The knife scrapes against the cutting board as he shoves a pile of finely chopped onions to the side, and immediately begins on the celery. You clear your throat, leaning your chin on your palm. “…So. Where did you learn to cook?”

And he almost snorts. “Not everyone grows up with a private chef, princess.”

“Funny. Very funny.” You roll your eyes, but honestly you’re just a bit embarrassed. Sometimes you forgot that this wasn’t the norm for everyone — the summer houses and the private tutors and yes, the personal chef. Bucky obviously wasn’t born into wealth, judging by his words — but everytime you’d brought up his history he’d just outright refuse to tell you. You’re not sure whether it’s because of his strong sense of professionalism or his general closed-off nature or both. But seeing as he’s obviously more amiable this morning… “You know, you’ve been working here for, like, six months, and I still don’t know much about you.”

_Pop!_ The jar of pickles opens easily for him. He barely looks up. “What is there to know?”

“What is there to know?” You echo, unimpressed. “Let’s see. Where you grew up… Where you got all your tattoos… How you started working for the Russian mafia, and if you’re carrying a gun… And who the _hell_ named you Bucky, because of _all_ the names— _Ow_!”

A piece of celery hits you smackdab in the middle of your forehead. 

“Brat,” he mutters, and neither of you comment on how _fond_ it sounds. “You are… very persistent.”

“It’s part of my charm. So, any answers for me?”

Everything gets tossed into a large pot, and the gas clicks into power seconds later. Bucky wipes his hands on the nearest tea towel, before pulling off his suit jacket and slinging it onto the bar seat beside you. “Fine. Let’s see. My… mother was Romanian. My father was an American. He gave me the name Bucky. Well, Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes, but my mother called me Jakov.”

You watch as he begins to stir the soup with a wooden spoon, face almost impassive. “I was born in Moscow but grew up in Saint Petersburg… I moved to America when I was 19, after my parents passed. Saved up for a year for one ticket — worked odd jobs to make rent. You know, if my father hadn’t taught me English, I would’ve ended up in the ground. America isn’t kind to immigrants.”

You want to say you’re sorry about his parents, but you have a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate you saying it. You stay silent instead, letting him speak at his own pace. “I was working at a Russian garage in Queens. One of the men told me Stepanchikov was looking for a guard, and… the rest is history.”

A steaming bowl of soup is placed in front of you, deliciously savoury and surprisingly not turning your stomach like everything else you’ve attempted to eat. You clear your throat, risking a quick glance up at him. “Thanks, Bucky.”

He watches closely as you take the first spoon. “Is good?”

It is. It’s surprisingly but still unsurprisingly delicious. Sour and sweet and savoury and full, that type of fullness that only really comes from home cooked meals. Not the fancy low-calorie dishes your chef often makes, but something warm and homey and… You’re almost taken aback at how _personal_ the entire gesture feels, and shove another spoonful in your mouth before you can put yourself in hot water.

“It’s delicious,” you say. “You have any interest in the chef’s job?”

He snorts. “I’d rather not.”

He stays silent as you continue eating, the pain between your brows easing up with every bite. The only thing to be heard is the gentle clanging of your spoon against the bowl and the running of the tap as he cleans up. It’s only when you’re in the last few spoonfuls that you clear your throat, finally braving the light of the kitchen as you pull off your sunglasses. “So… _do_ you have a gun?”

“Of course I have a gun.”

You blink. “Can I hold it—?”

“No.”

“Not even just for a minute—?”

“No.”

“…Fine.”

The relationship between you and Brock Rumlow is… complicated. You hate him more than you like him — he’s rude and self-righteous and more often than not bigoted. Sometimes you look at him and you’re not sure _why_ you ever dated him, and why you _continue_ to seek him out. 

Well, okay, you know why you dated him — because you were younger and stupider and acting out because, you know, your life was _obviously_ so hard — but what’s your excuse now? Why do you always turn to him whenever you want comfort, despite the fact that he never really _gives_ it? Hell, Bucky is more comforting than Brock has ever been.

(Then again, it seems that Bucky is just… monumentally better than Brock, period.)

You’re stuck in this strange in between — being so aware that Brock isn’t good for you, but still craving the closeness and the fact that you _know_ him. You may not like him, but you know him. Maybe it’s that self awareness that makes you end it once and for all—

“Do me a favour, Brock,” you say, your voice shaking into the phone’s receiver, your cheeks wet because you’ve been crying and you don’t know _why_ you’re giving this _asshole_ the satisfaction of knowing that he’s upset you, but— 

But you’re so _tired_. You’re so tired of everything. You’re tired of the death threats and the meaningless flings and how everything’s so cold and _mean_. And Brock’s the meanest of all. When he’s in the mood, he can do some real damage and he _knows_ it, and you don’t know why you’ve let his opinions cut so deep but here you are, sobbing over the phone and hoping that Bucky can’t hear you from outside.

“I don’t need to listen to this,” you hear Brock curse. “You’re fucking insane—”

“Go _fuck_ yourself. Don’t call me again,” you interrupt — and you take your phone and you hang up and then you fling it right across the room, straight into the wall.

You can’t even remember why you were fighting — a snide comment that he made in passing that rubbed you the wrong way, probably, because God knows he makes a lot of them — but you’re _drained_. It’s almost 11 — soon Bucky will be going home, and you’ll be free to cry as loud as you want.

_Wow_ , you think dryly to yourself, sniffling into your pillow, _look at me. This is my coming-of-age movie turning point._ It doesn’t fucking feel like it. 

There’s a knock on the door, and you prop yourself up on your elbows, frowning. “…Yes?”

“There was a bang,” Bucky says, peeking his head into the room. His eyes narrow at the sight of your own reddened ones. “What happened?”

“Nothing important,” you scoff, avoiding his eyes. It’s already embarrassing enough to be this torn up over Brock Rumlow of all people, you don’t need to have it rubbed in. “Just know that if Brock Rumlow comes near me ever again, you have my permission to chop his head off and serve it on a silver platter.”

He lingers in the doorway — takes a step forward, folding his arms in the angry way of his. “What did he do?”

“Just — said some things.”

“What things?”

“Bucky,” you sigh, looking over. “Can you please let it go?”

He just shuts the door behind him and walks further into your room, taking a seat on your bed, and you’re once again reminded that the relationship between you and Bucky is _definitely_ not just one of employer-employee. 

“I’ve met a lot of assholes in my line of work,” he says casually. “None I have wanted to kill more than Brock Rumlow.”

“You’re really good at this ‘comforting’ thing.” But you’re laughing anyway, even though it’s a bit teary and sniffly and mascara is smeared across your fingers when you wipe underneath your eyes. “Fucking _ass_. How does someone raise a child like that?”

“It’s you rich people,” and he leans forward, tapping his finger against your forehead, “How you turn out, it’s a hit or miss, yes?”

“And what about me?” You find yourself saying, tilting your head teasingly. It’s a good distraction from being upset, you find, watching Bucky’s eyebrow cock up and his lips turn up in that cocky little smirk of his. “Hit or miss?”

“A hit, definitely,” he says, quiet — and all of a sudden you realise that he’s really quite close. It’s like something is charged between you. A lump grows in your throat, your chest aching with the effort of holding your breath because like a shot you’re all too aware that maybe — just maybe — you’d like to kiss him.

Your exhale is shaky. Call you the maker of bad decisions but right now you can’t live up to your title. This isn’t something you should do when you’re so… unstable. You don’t deserve that, and neither does Bucky — even if you want to climb onto his lap and have his hands on your jaw and your hips and _everywhere—_

“I’m… gonna go to bed,” you whisper instead.

Bucky doesn’t look offended. If anything, he almost looks _amused_ , like he knows exactly where your mind had been just seconds ago, and he rises up from your bed with only a pat on your knee and a _goodnight_. The door clicks quietly behind him.

You collapse back onto your bed. 

“Fuck.”

While you know Bucky is deadly, you don’t actually, well, _know_. You can see it in his stature and his appearance and the way he carries himself — hell, even the way he walks can strike fear in some. Yeah, you’ve literally seen some people turn and walk the opposite way when they see him coming. It’s what you’ve fondly dubbed the _murder strut_ , the walk that clears all pathways and crowds in front of you. It’s really quite helpful at times—

“Call off your guard dog, eh?” 

It seems that Brock doesn’t have enough brain cells to actually _register_ the murder strut. Or the fact that this bulky, tatted Russian man who is very _clearly_ armed is halfway to pulling out said firearm. You’d let him, too, because this is a fucking social gathering and Brock was _not_ invited.

It’s a club downtown, the fancy kind. The entire VIP area is taken up by you and your friends and some of Stepanchikov’s main men — a show of good faith, or some shit. You’re not even in the mood to be out tonight, which is surprising in and of itself, so you’ve only been nursing a single pink gin for the entirety of the night, lounging on an armchair and drifting between people watching and small talk. Bucky’s been poised behind you for that time too, but he’s monumentally more relaxed now that he’s in Stepanchikov’s territory — laughing and joking with the other men, flurried Russian that you can’t understand, but it sounds nice so you’re not complaining.

Somewhere between Generic Club Anthem 1 and Generic Club Anthem 2, Brock just… appears. One moment he’s not there and the next he is, snarling and shouting over the music—

“Ignoring my calls, bitch?”

Bucky’s up like a shot. Doesn’t waste time in rounding around your lounge chair to meet Brock halfway, pushing him backwards. A chorus of jeers and encouragements follow him from his friends — your own friends whispering anxiously among themselves. They’ve all known Brock since childhood, too — Natasha and Dot and Lizzie. You don’t think they’d appreciate seeing Bucky beat Brock to a pulp in front of them.

“You need to leave,” Bucky says lowly. “You are not wanted here.”

“This doesn’t concern you. Get the fuck out of my way. I need to talk to that uppity _bitch_.”

A voice behind you calls something out — and from the teasing, taunting tone of voice you’d guess it’s something like _beat his ass, Bucky_. Bucky looks ready to, too, shoulders taut and compressed, a snake coiled tight before lunging. You find yourself shifting nervously, eyes flickering back and forth between them, unsure of whether you should break this up before it starts, or—

Brock throws the first punch — strong and straight for Bucky’s face, but it’s swatted away like it’s nothing more than a slight slap. Then Brock is trying for another hit, lunging forward, grappling for anything he can reach, and under the flashing lights it’s _terrifying_ to watch. The entire image of them flickers in and out, and your eyes can’t _focus_ , can’t tell who’s winning or if anyone _is_ winning—

There’s a sickening crack as Bucky’s fist meets Brock’s jaw, and you’re not sure whether it’s you or the other girls that scream as Brock hits the floor. He drops to his knees, his head bowed and his shoulders slump, and you jump to your feet and Bucky doesn’t back away — just crouches lower, yanking Brock’s head up by a tight grip on his hair.

“—you hear me, asshole?” He’s hissing. “My woman. _Mine_.”

Your stomach twists, but you push all thoughts of his possessiveness down.

“Bucky!” You yell, pulling at his shoulder. “Stop it. Leave it alone, let’s go.”

For a second he doesn’t budge — but at least he isn’t punching him, so you take that as a win. You tug at him again, hands drifting down to clasp around his own. “C’mon. _Please_.”

You squeeze his hand tightly, moving closer until you could press your nose against his shoulder. “Please, Bucky.” 

“…You’re lucky,” Bucky finally mutters to Brock, standing up straight. He begins to back away, but not before spitting down at him. “Fucking bitch.”

As soon as Bucky and you move away, Natasha and Lizzie and Dot all rush over to Brock’s aid, fussing over him as they help him stumble to his feet. His entire jaw is swollen, his mouth bloody with a busted lip, and he can barely keep his eyes open. Your heart drops — not because you think he doesn’t deserve it, but because you’d never even stopped to think that Bucky was capable of it. 

(Which, again, you’ve always _known,_ but you’ve never stopped to contemplate it.)

You barely stop to retrieve your discarded handbag before you’re following Bucky out of the club — pulled quickly and swiftly out of the VIP area and through the crowds, until you’re out in the midnight air. You pace past the queue of people lining up for entrance outside, following Bucky as he storms around the side to where he’d parked the car.

There’s no room for discussion. And it’s not the place, either — you decide to wait until you’ve made the drive home before you strike. In the meantime you slip into the backseat, watch as he pulls out of the lane and into traffic.

_My woman. Mine._ You restrain a shiver. That’s what he said, right? You hadn’t just imagined it? No, there’s no way you’d imagined it. You couldn’t have made up the animosity, the malice, the _resentment_ that had been so prevalent in his voice — the way he had said it so surely, like it’s a _fact_.

( _Isn’t it?_ You think in the back of your mind. _Hasn’t it been a fact for the past few months?_ )

Bucky doesn’t say anything from the front. Just drives, all stiff and silent like he was when you first met. You’re not sure how he’s feeling, and it irritates the _shit_ out of you. He’s always so aloof, you’re used to that, but now you can’t even get a _hint_ of what he might be thinking. Is he proud of what he did? Unashamed? Pissed off?

You think it might be that last one — especially when, after parking the car in the garage of your home, he immediately steps out and slams the door behind him. You’re just as quick, though — already halfway out of the car, too, hurrying after him as quick as your shoes will allow — actually, fuck this, the shoes are coming off—

“Can you stop?” You demand. He’s just storming past the kitchen, now, through the living room, past the foyer, towards the grand staircase that leads to the first floor. “Wanna tell me what the fuck that was?”

“Doing my job,” he only says gruffly.

“Really?” You’re unimpressed, that much is obvious. “Your job, eh? You know, when I said you could serve his head on a silver platter I didn’t fucking mean to _break his jaw_ —”

“He deserved it.”

“I know he did,” you snap, “But Brock’s a fucking cockroach. You think he’s gonna back down now? Now that you’ve humiliated him in front of all of your friends and — and what was that? _My woman._ What was _that_ about, _Bucky_?”

He stiffens. “Leave it _alone_.”

“Why are you being so _difficult_?” You gripe. “I heard you say it and I want to know why.”

Your bedroom door slams shut behind the two of you — you hadn’t even realised that you were being so loud, and you’re eternally grateful that your father’s out. Bucky stares at you, chest heaving, and — well, you make the hasty decision to do what you do best: irritate the truth out of him.

“Is that what you want?” You say quietly, dropping your jacket on the floor. You take a step closer and he just stares, nostrils flaring. “For me to be your woman, Bucky?”

“Don’t start this.”

“I didn’t start anything,” you continue breezily. “I’m just curious. Do you want me? I wouldn’t be angry — and would you look at that, we’re in the _perfect_ place.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky warns. “Now stop.”

“Or what? What’re you gonna do?” You say, sporting a shit-eating grin that only grows as you near. You pull it into a pout, though, rocking back on your heels when you’re within touching distance. “Huh? Big Bad Bucky gonna bend me over his lap and give me a spanking?”

Bucky’s lip curls — almost a snarl, and if you weren’t so petty you’d be a bit apprehensive because you weren’t lying when you called him dangerous looking.

“ _Следи за своим ртом_.” And you have no idea what it means but he hisses it so harsh and rough under his breath that a little part of your brain is warning you that you’re _seriously_ playing with fire, but you can’t back away now.

“Gonna pull my dress up? I’m not wearing underwear. It’ll be easy access,” you continue, almost breathless from fucking _nothing_ but him, almost breathless from the fact that after months and months of this cat and mouse game, you’re taking the leap, and it feels _exhilirating_. “Or will you choke me first? I know you’d like that—”

And his irritation bubbles over — lightning fast, drawing a surprised yelp from you, his left hand winds around the column of your neck just like you’d teased, squeezing hard enough that you can still breath, but every breath is a wheeze. With his grip hard around your throat, he begins to back you up towards your bed, and _fuck_ , somewhere in the back of your mind you guess you shouldn’t be as turned on by it as you are. Pupils dilated, no doubt, breathing laboured and shuddering, and you feel warmth blossom between your legs at the harsh look on his face.

“I think _you’d_ like that,” he says, amused. “Wet between your legs, I bet, like a little whore.”

You let out the most embarrassing sound — something between a squeak and a mewl that makes Bucky grin. 

“Of course,” he says, scoffing a laugh. His fingers tighten just a tiny bit, tugging downwards so that you collapse back onto your bed. “You like that, don’t you? When I call you that.”

You can only sigh, breathy and only _slightly_ erotic, eyes drifting upwards to take him in. His jaw is hardened and his brow is set, and for some reason you know that you’ll have a hard time weaselling yourself into getting your way — no pouting to make him ease up, no whining to turn things in the direction you want. Like he can tell what you’re thinking, Bucky nods.

“If we do this,” he begins lowly, “it’s not going to be soft, princess, I won’t lie to you. If you don’t want something, you must tell me.”

His grip eases up minutely, and you realise he wants a confirmation. “I — I will. Promise.”

“Good.” His thumb rubs circles back and forth over the underside of your jaw, his own eyes scrutinizing you in such a way that has you sitting up straighter. He just barely cracks a smile. “Look at you. Much quieter this way.”

You can’t help it. Something about him makes you just want to submit. It’s not like with Brock, where you made him _work_ for it — you feel like, somehow, Bucky’s already earned it. There’s no doubt in your mind that he can take care of you, whether through his past actions or just _him._ Besides, you feel like brattiness would get you nowhere with him. The man’s the most impassive you’ve ever come across. He’d probably just ignore you.

“No panties, eh?” He muses to himself, suddenly letting go of your throat. You try to control the way you splutter and gasp for breath, try to seem much more in control then you actually are — though something about the way he hums in thought gives you an inkling of a suspicion that he just might like seeing you so disheveled—

A hard push at your shoulder sees you flattened against your bed. You squirm in anticipation as he kneels in front of you, licking his lips, and then begins to inch his hands up your legs. From your ankles to your calves, to the sensitive spots behind your knees, and up towards your thighs. His hands are so warm, and large, and they easily leave goosebumps in their wake. Deliberately slow and teasing, his eyes remain inscrutable and fixed on your face — though just inches from the hiked-up hem of your dress, he stops. At first you think he’s just… teasing, but the more time passes, the more confused you become. 

Sitting yourself up on your elbows, you blink over at him. “Why’d you stop?”

“I know you are a spoiled brat, princess, but you will learn manners with me,” he snarks. You can only glare at him, bottom lip perking out in an unsatisfied pout. “We’ll start with ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, yes?”

Your glare only deepens, but Bucky matches it with one of equal fervour. “Yes?” He presses, pinching your thigh.

“…Yes.”

“Good. Then, if you want me to touch you, you must ask correctly.”

You know how to say _please_ and _thank you_ , you’re not a _child_. This is humiliating, and yet — cheeks burning, heart thumping from his close proximity, it’s only serving to intensify the pulsing between your legs. Call you fucked up, but…

“Please?” You say, voice small. 

“Please _what_?” 

(For God’s _sake_.)

“…Please touch me.” You hold your breath, waiting for his approval, anticipating the moment when his hands would drift up and up and up… “Please, Bucky.”

“Good. You’re learning, hm?” 

And you want to talk back, you want to make a smart comment or scoff or _something_ — but it’s either your sense of self-preservation, your eagerness to please him, or the fact that he finally starts moving upwards that shuts you up. The hem of your dress meets your upper stomach. His fingers just barely brush against the curve of your ass pressed against your blankets — then to the crease where your legs meet your hips, thumbs pressing _hard_ into the sensitive skin. You can only watch, transfixed, as he repeats his actions: up and down, up and down, the movement simultaneously calming and arousing… and then his hands pull your legs apart, and you’re both cursing and praising yourself for not wearing panties because _fuck_. It’s really setting in — Bucky (James, Jakov, whatever you want to call him) is literally half a metre away from your pussy. 

Bucky laughs when your pussy contracts at the thought — blows a teasing little puff of air against the hot, keen skin of you. “Eager.”

And then he runs two fingers up the length of you — weeping slit to swollen clit, drawing a short whimper from your throat. His own stifled groan rumbles in his chest, his gaze focused on the petal-like pinkness underneath his fingers — he licks his thumb quickly, before pressing it back against your uncovered bundle of nerves, and _holy shit_. You fall back flat, hands dragging to your hair in an effort to release _some_ of the pent up energy building in you.

Short flicks of his thumb against your clit transform to rough, hard circles — dipping down to wet his digits in the slick dripping from your entrance before slipping back up — and you’re melting, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you can remember, beginning to roll your hips to meet him halfway. You feel like you’re _floating_ , like everything’s just narrowed down to a pinpoint that starts right where his skin meets yours, like he’s the only thing holding you down.

“Do you want me to put my mouth on you?” And he cuts right through the fog, making your eyes flutter open through the pleasure. You can barely catch your breath enough to get out an answer, your mind clouding over and over with each wave of bliss—

“Y-yes. Yes.”

A sharp, almost too-intense swipe over your clit. “Manners. Use them.”

“Please—” And it’s hurried, panting, stumbling over your tongue and through your lips— “B-Bucky — _James_ — please—”

“Hm. You know what I like to hear, don’t you?” And a second later, punctuated by yet another pinch to your hip— “ _Answer_.”

“Yeah. Yes, I know, I know — _please put your mouth on me_ —”

A satisfied croon that makes your chest flutter, and you prop yourself back up to watch as he bows his head and _licks_ straight from bottom to top, gathering your slick on his tongue before beginning to use the wideness of it to shower your clit in attention — back and forth, back and forth, rolling so fucking _expertly_ over you that you can only just sit there with your hands fisting the sheets and pant and moan and _mewl_. 

Then his fingers prod at your entrance — two thick digits, pushing you open in such a swift movement that you don’t even register the dull stretch until they’re fully seated inside you. The fullness makes you want to _cry_ — so fucking intense, the sweet shaking pleasure from his tongue paired with the gratifying ache of being filled.

(Not for the first time since being paired with Bucky, you _wish_ you could at least understand Russian, because between licks he’s muttering against your pussy, things that could be praises or compliments or _anything_ , and you want to _know_. For now, though, you just have to lay there and listen to him, just have to lay there and let him do whatever he wants to you.)

Another finger joins the other two; slips right in beside them, fitting snugly inside you — and then another, four fucking fingers deep and you realise that it’s been a _long_ fucking time since somebody’s actually fingered you this good, because Brock Rumlow sure as hell doesn’t know how to use his fingers like this.

(In the back of your mind, you think that maybe you should be embarrassed at the wet sounds coming from between your legs — the slippery, smacking sounds of his tongue and fingers; the groans from Bucky that vibrate all throughout your bottom half; your own heavy breathing and desperate whines of his name — but it’s all so fucking good that you can’t bring yourself to feel an inch of real, actual _shame_.)

“If you want to take me,” Bucky murmurs, momentarily lifting up and replacing his tongue with his thumb, “you need to cum.”

Well, that sure as hell won’t be hard. Even just the thought of having him inside you makes you moan even louder, pressing your head back into the mattress as your pussy starts to contract with the first warning currents of your orgasm — and you’re suddenly hit full force with it when he just takes your clit into his mouth and _sucks,_ loud and lewd and _fuck—_

“Oh — Bucky, Bucky, I’m — _fuck—_!” Warmth spreads all the way through your body, from the tips of your fingers to your toes, your stomach tensing with the sheer force of it — and in the throes of it you reach for him, holding your intertwined hands tight to your abdomen. Your toes curl against the sheets, your eyes screwed shut as the waves ebb and flow, hips squirming and you’re not sure whether you’re trying to get away from it or towards it.

He rides you through it, no problem. Doesn’t let up with his licking and you’re sure his jaw is aching with the way he moves it but he sticks through it like a champ. Even when it’s faded away to nothing but little aftershocks trembling in your legs, he’s moving his mouth against you, pushing his fingers as deep as they can. It’s not until you give a feeble little moan and wriggle your hips away that he rises up, licking his lips and — you whimper — his fingers. 

“Next time I won’t let up so easily,” he warns, “But I’ll allow it this time. Now turn over.”

You give a tired blink. “What?”

He’s rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, but he looks up to spare you a wolfish grin that genuinely makes you pray for your stamina. “What was it you said earlier? Ah, yes: _Big Bad Bucky is gonna give you a spanking_.”

Your already too-sensitive pussy gives a _hard_ squeeze. “I — I was _joking—_ ”

“I wasn’t. Turn over. Now.”

There’s no room for argument, you know that well enough. Not with the way that he says it, all rough and short, that tone that says _don’t even try to fight with me_. And well, who are you to do otherwise? If Bucky tells you to roll over so he can spank you, you’re going to listen. So you do — on your stomach, practically buzzing with excitement as he roughly tugs your dress over your ass.

“Блядь,” you hear him mutter, laying one light clap on one cheek. The bed dips beside you when he takes a seat. “посмотри на это… Okay, let’s see. Five on each cheek, for now.”

You huff. “Too much.”

And then he lays one on each cheek — swift and vigorous, making you hiss into the sheets, and even though he smooths over them briefly, massages the flash roughly, they still sting in the aftermath. “They are enough. And you’ll thank me afterwards, won’t you?”

Two more abrupt wallops that echo through the room, have you whimpering— “ _Won’t you_?”

“ _Yes_!” _Asshole_. But you’re not exactly complaining, are you? Unless complaining is twisting the sheets in your fists and pushing your ass up towards him. 

“Good. We’re making progress, hm?” Another set, and then another, and you’re pushing back tears that could be from pain or pleasure — the line’s so blurred at this point that you don’t think you’d be able to distinguish them. “This isn’t so bad, is it? Only two more to go.”

And he delivers them just as hard and quick as the rest, taking a handful of your ass in one hand just because he can. 

“Thank you,” you mumble, face half-smushed beneath you.

And he doesn’t really let it show — doesn’t let it seep into his voice or into his words — but you know he’s proud of you for remembering, and you’d be lying if you say you aren’t practically glowing at it. 

Just like he did with Rumlow, his fingers thread through your hair, tugging your head up from the mattress so that he can fully see you. A patronizing little coo, and his thumb smooths underneath your eye — coming back wet, obviously, from your tears. “That’s what I like to see.”

You pout up at him. “…can you fuck me now?”

A disgruntled scoff. “Do you think you can make demands now?”  
“W-what? No.” Well, maybe just a little. You’d taken the spanking so well. “…but I want it.”

“We’ll have to work on that.” Almost thoughtfully, his hand pets back and forth over your ass. “Brat… Always getting what you want. I should just leave you like this. Teach you a lesson.”

He better fucking _not_ —

“But I won’t. Not today.” And he gets up, then, the sudden clinking of his belt driving a sort of too-strong impatience into you that makes every second feel like an hour. “I’ll have you like this. On your stomach, like a little whore. Because that’s what you are, aren’t you? Always trying to tempt me with your short little skirts and your smart comments.”

_Fuck_. It’s like he’s just ticking every single box that you never really knew you even had. You weren’t close enough with your other flings to feel comfortable with name calling, and Brock was so annoying that it offended you more than it turned you on, but _Bucky—_

“Yes,” you agree, maybe looking a tad _too_ eager when you push your ass upwards. “Your whore.”

Bucky makes an _extremely_ pleased noise that has you preening — the sound of a zipper following quickly. “You know exactly what to say, don’t you?”

“Just to you.” Half-teasing and half-truthful, because you know that there’s _something_ with you and Bucky that you’ve never had with anyone else. Call it affection, call it love, call it whatever, but it’s there. 

Bucky hums — the bed dipping once more as he climbs on top. His knees cage you in, one on either side of your thighs, and you realise that he hasn’t even taken off his clothes — just unzipped his pants and taken out his cock, more than half-hard and pressed against the curve of your ass, warm and thick and almost _throbbing_. He bows his head, then, to your shoulder, nuzzling his lips against the nape of your neck — it’s the first genuinely tender touch he’s given, really, and no matter how short-lived it is, you revel in it.

With his lips still pressed to your skin, one of his hands takes hold of himself — and then he’s pressing himself into you—

“Oh, God—” It’s a broken whimper on your part, every sensation just… spreading out over every inch of your skin, a domino effect that seems to call every neuron to attention, setting them aflame. The closeness of Bucky’s skin to yours, the hot breaths against the back of your neck and the silk sheets rubbing against your front — even the feeling of your dress bunched up makes you squirm. It’s a sensory overload, toeing the line between too much and not enough.

And don’t even _start_ on the feeling of _him_. You know now why he needed to get four fingers in you before having you himself, because _god fucking damnit_ he’s thick. You didn’t get a look at him before, but if the torturous drag of his cock inside of you is anything to go by, he’s _long_ , too. Throbbing warm — organic, if you had to put a word to it, like this closeness is genuinely the closest you could ever get to him. And you’ll savour it of course, because you don’t think you’ve ever _wanted_ to be so close to anyone—

A low groan from him runs you from your own thoughts; his hips begin to form a rhythm, filling you to the brim so fucking deeply that it feels like he’s seated in your fucking _womb_ before pulling out, all the way to the very tip, only to slam back in again. His pelvis smacks against your ass as he immediately set a cutthroat pace, one hand positioned on your hip and the other on your shoulder, fingernails digging into your skin and—

“Just like I thought—” Hot and pestering, that _irritating_ type of amusement that only makes you moan louder— “Little whore.”

God, you’ll shout it from the rooftops if it means he’ll never stop because he’s managed to hit that spot — you know, the magic spot. The _end all be all_ , the spot that makes you clutch the sheets and _keen._ You’re glad that he’s having you like this, on your stomach, because you know damn well that if you were on top — or God forbid, standing — you would’ve collapsed a long time ago. You can already feel your toes curling again, your knees shaking even in their contained position.

“Been waiting for this,” he’s grunting, words catching around a pleasured groan, “I’m not going to last—”

Your clit scrapes against the sheets, once, twice, three times — and you’re gone. It’s one of those orgasms that just sneak up on you; once second you’re panting, the next second it’s tingling down to your toes and squeezing around your lungs, pussy clenching around him like a _vice—_

You don’t even hear what Bucky says when he cums — your mind is so cloudy, all cotton candy and fog — but you know he says _something_ ; growls it right in your ear as he rides out his pleasure, hips grinding against your backside. 

One last muted groan, a few minutes later. Bucky pulls out and there’s a rush of warmth that trickles down your abused slit, and he just kneels there with his hand on your ass to watch it. It would almost be embarrassing if it wasn’t so fucking hot.

“Stay here,” Bucky says, then. “I’ll get something to clean up.”

You wouldn’t be able to move properly if you tried. You think you’ve lost all feeling in your legs — still, though, you manage to squirm around until you’re laying on your back. Bucky emerges from your ensuite a minute later with a cloth in hand.

“My ass hurts,” you mumble.

“I’ll get you some ointment.” He begins to gently wipe at the mess between your legs.

“And my throat hurts from when you choked me.” It doesn’t really, and you think he knows that if the amused smile he dons has anything to say.

“Then I’ll get you some tea.” The rag is discarded.

“And you didn’t kiss me,” you say tiredly. You roll your head to the side, peering up at him. “Not even once.”

“Hard to kiss you when you’re mouthing off half the time,” he mutters — but he bows his head, anyways, grasps your chin in one giant hand and kisses you in a way that, well, you weren’t sure he was able to pull off; not soft, exactly, but… sentimental. Thoughtful. Not that kind of fiery passion that promises a second round — it’s almost innocent. You know from that kiss that you’re _well_ over far gone. You think you have been for months.

“And you never told me where you got your tattoos either,” you remind him. 

“You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?” 

“It’s part of my charm.”

He falls onto the bed beside you — somehow, almost naturally, you end up with your head on his chest and his arms around you. Safe and warm and secure and _happy_ , especially when he presses his lips to your hairline.

“Sleep, little brat.”

“Your father’s been re-elected.” He stands, all professional and hard-faced, and you scoff.

“Thanks for stating the obvious.”

“ _Attitude_.” It never fails to impress you how he can somehow keep such a straight face while acting the exact opposite.

You roll your eyes, but you say nothing else. The venue is filled to the brim with every supporter your father had had during his re-election campaign; his PR team, his Marketing team, his numerous assistants, supervisors, benefactors, and yes, Stepanchikov himself. You’ve been nursing a glass of Rosé for the past hour or so, only stopping to take a sip when you’re pulled up by someone who wants to congratulate you as if _you’re_ the one who’s been re-elected.

“The threats have stopped,” Bucky continues, and you throw a glance over your shoulder at him. “You will not need a bodyguard anymore.”

“Of course I will,” you say breezily. “Never know when danger’s around the corner.” Then, quieter, _closer_ , just because you can: “Plus, you still haven’t told me where you got your tattoos, _Jakov_.”

“And you will never know.”

“You said that about everything else, didn’t you?”

“ _Petulant_.”

You shrug. “It’s part of my charm.”

**Хватит говорить** \- stop talking

**Нет** _-_ no

**принцесса** \- princess

**Иисус Христос** \- Jesus Christ

**Да** \- yes

**Блядь. посмотри на это** \- fuck. look at that


End file.
